


Any Port in a Storm

by lousy_science



Series: The Does What it Says on the Tin series [7]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 10:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12431208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: Supply closet smut.





	Any Port in a Storm

The RAF had requisitioned the local schools’ swimming pool for practicing water drills. It had been built for children, not RAF pilots, and it was a bit Alice in Wonderland to Collins’s eyes, watching grown men totter on the narrow benches only to line up on the cool tiles, looking out of place against the height charts on the far wall which only went to 5 ft. 

He could imagine what it was like here when the kids lined up at the edge waiting for the PT master’s whistle to jump in, the sound of squeals of fear and triumph echoing off the walls. 

Being back in school clearly affected everyone, if you bothered to look. Collins could see who in his squad had been the class clown - Smithy, obviously - and who’d been shy or reluctant. An expression would cross their face, at the smell of the corridors, or the dinky size of the chairs, and some sense memory would return and send them back to their childhood for a second. For Collins, it had been the sports trophies in the hallway. His school had posted a list of who made the first fifteen in rugby trials out by the main gate, and every year it determined the pecking order for the rest of term. 

Collins had never made the team, “too scrawny” according to the coach. His only medals had been scholastic ones, which never did him much good in the popularity stakes. But he loved to swim. He had always preferred it outdoors than a pool, where water was forced into containment. But a few on the squad showed slight tremors of fear. He thought he understood - no pilot wanted to hit the water - and some, like Farrier, never had swimming lessons as a kid. 

Farrier had been fascinated by the hulking mass of St. Benedict’s Academy for Boys. After disappearing to take himself on an impromptu tour, he’d shown up next to Collins in the drill line. “Was this the kind of place you went to?”

“Take this and cross it with Newgate Prison, then relocate it to the least attractive part of the Highlands, where your pupils are always on the verge of hypothermia, and you’d be describing somewhere a hair more pleasant than my school.”

After watching Farrier execute the drill perfectly, Collins threw him one of the child-sized towels. He was hauling himself out of the pool on strong arms that had cut through the water powerfully. 

“Where did you learn to swim, then?”

Patting down the beads of water on his chest, he replied, “Working on the docks, you had to know what to do if someone fell in the drink.”

Mackenzie sprung up behind him to ruffle Farrier’s hair. “You look like a shaggy dog!”

He was the kid, Collins figured, who would’ve pushed other kids into the pool for laughs. “Watch it, Mac, or you’ll get dunked yourself.”

Farrier just pushed him off, and Mackenzie continued to laugh as he bounded off to the back of the pool. “See you lot in the showers! Be careful not drop the soap,” 

The showers were tiny, half-sized, and there was no hot water. More than the pool, they had brought back Collins’s schooldays, the aching times when you had to submit to vulnerability, be stripped down and assessed. He’d been one of the first in the pool, and had been careful to get in and out of the bathing area quickly to be spared Mackenzie’s jokes. 

After watching a few more drills, Collins had gone back to the changing rooms to get the rest of his uniform. He was half-dressed when Farrier popped his head in, caught his eye and made a quick gesture with his hand, before melting back into the darkness behind the doorway. Jacobs and Stu hadn’t even seen him, busy buttoning up their shirts and staring at the walls, caught up in their own memories. 

Collins staying sitting, his hands on his knees, and breathed out slow. He waited ten, twenty, thirty seconds. After a minute, he rose to his feet and strolled out the same doorway as if he was going nowhere in particular. 

He was, he discovered. The direction Farrier had pointed him to lead him down a spindly unlit hallway, and it was only the open door that tipped him off. Ducking in, he discovered one of those lost spaces that emerged in jumbled-together buildings like schools. A sort of supply closet-cum-office-cum-storage area, with a desk that had two filing cabinets stacked on top of it, a stack of rolled-up maps of the Empire, boxes of chalk and cleaning supplies, and a couch. Where Farrier was sprawled, surveying the piles of detritus with a wary eye, as if it was his job to restore the room to utility. 

“I bet this is where the bookworms come to hide out on Games Day,” Collins looked up at the skinny window that had been half-bricked up. 

“There’s a lock on the door,”

Collins shrugged. “I learned how to pick the gardener’s shed lock by the time I was twelve.”

“You used to hide out on Games Day?”

“We had a master called Franklin,” Collins moved over to the couch, having fastened the latch on the door behind him, “who liked to make the losers take off their shoes and shirts and jump over thistle patches. A loser was any boy he deemed not hard enough.”

Farrier wrapped a hand around his thigh, looking at him, but when Collins leaned towards him he said softly, “He thought you were a loser?”

“Yes,” Collins sunk into the couch a little more, letting their sides sink closer together. “He used to cane me for knowing the right answers in Geometry. Said I was a show-off. Once he caned me twice in a day, during class, then had me called to his office again. For insubordination. Someone had passed me a note with a cartoon of him, his big nose, and he caught me with it.”

He’d done his best not to think about those days since he’d left school. He laughed, taken aback by the vividness of the memory. “I hated him. I still do, actually.”

“And now he owes you for keeping him safe.”

Collins hadn’t thought of that. Since letting the school gates close behind him for the last time, he’d only thought of Franklin as the all-powerful tyrant, not an old man, probably in his sixties now, who would be quaking with the thought of invasion. 

A strong hand brushed Collins’s hair back from his forehead. Collins closed his eyes for a moment, staying still as fingertips traced down over his eyebrows to his jaw, tipping his head sideways. This time when Collins leaned towards Farrier, they both moved together. 

Farrier still smelled of chlorine and he had the tackiness of recently-dried skin. Collins hands skidded over it where he had them snuck beneath his undershirt, feeling the muscles of his back that swooped down below his beltline. There wasn’t much room for the two of them - it’d be huge for an eight-year-old bookworm, not for two grown men - but they were freshly trained in dealing with small spaces, after all. 

With his hands on Collins’s waist, Farrier was kissing his neck with just enough pressure to make Collins kick a leg out involuntarily. His thigh got pulled closer and he was half-sitting on Farrier’s lap, half-tucked under his chest. Rising up enough to scramble at his belt buckle, Collins resigned himself to re-ironing his trousers back at base. 

“Let me,” and Farrier was taking over, untucking Collins’s shirt and getting a hand into his shorts. Collins mewled a little at the first touch, making Farrier laugh, so he leaned forward to bite an ear in reproach. 

Farrier was stroking him, slow and deliberate, as if they had all the time in the world. Collins was fairly sure they didn’t, and resisted the impulse to recline on the overstuffed couch and string it out. He got his hand down Farrier’s fly and found the anticipated weight there pushing out the front of his underwear. 

It was murder on the wrist but he got his hand right around Farrier’s old fellow, and heard an “Oof,” heaved in his ear. 

They readjusted a little, Collins lying across Farrier’s side, heads tipped on each other’s shoulders, so they could watch one another’s faces as their arms pumped. Collins slowed down when Farrier sped up, just to see the line appear between those askew eyebrows as Farrier’s face pinched in tension. They breathed wetly towards each other, Collins pressing the pad of his pointer finger hard on the sinewy vein along the base of Farrier’s fat prick. Thinking about how it felt inside him his guts clenched, as if his ribs were closing in on emptiness. 

Rubbing his nose on Collins’s cheek, Farrier reached another hand down to grab at his balls, making Collins gasp and hitch up against the back of the couch. 

There was a banging noise from the other end of the corridor. Both of their heads snapped towards the door, as if it was about to be shoved open, but only silence followed.

“C’mon, lad,” Farrier whispered into his ear, and Collins was so close. Clawing his spare hand on Farrier’s shoulder, he pressed his lips together in a hard line and felt his body focus on that one pulsing point of contact, Farrier’s hand on his cock, and he shook with release. 

Opening his eyes he saw Farrier’s face close to his. His hand hadn’t stopped moving in short, urgent tugs, and he could see that Farrier was almost there himself. Bending his head forward he latched onto that thick lower lip with gentle teeth. 

“ _Aaah_ ,” Farrier’s mouth opened with the groan to meet his, and they shared one last messy kiss as Farrier pumped hot and wet into Collins’s palm. 

Foreheads leaning together, they stayed still for a moment. Collins began to look around the room for clean up material. When Farrier wiped his hand down the back of the couch, he knocked their knees together. “Filthy beast.”

Farrier was standing up, pulling his trousers up, smiling down at him. “Gotta get going. Pilot’s got to be on time.”

“See you out there in a sec,”

“Yeah,” Farrier bent down for a peck on Collins’s brow. “Don’t be too late, or they’ll make you polish all those trophies.” 

“Never again.” Collins had found some polishing cloths in one of the boxes, and was silently apologising to the cleaner. He’d have to start carrying a handkerchief, maybe several. He looked at Farrier loping over to the door. “Think I’ve done enough polishing for the day.”

Farrier laughed at that and shot him a cheeky look, leaving Collins in the stuffy little room. Going to throw the ruined cloth in a bin, he found a dusty globe stuffed in there, with a slight dent to it around Polynesia. Spinning it in hands, he decided to take it with him. It could be his final school trophy, for a victory no one else had to know about. 


End file.
